The Walls Come Tumbling Down
by Unoriginal Entity
Summary: AU My take on the classic "What would have happened if" story line. After defeating Voldemort in his first year, an ancient and powerful magic is awoken that changes everything. The dead rise; those who are broken become whole, and Harry Potter finally gets what he has always deserved: a family. Warning: There will likely be spanking as punishment in this story. Don't like, move on
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Obviously I do not own Harry Potter. I am not writing this for any sort of monetary gain. I'm just a bored person who can't come up with their own original thoughts to write an entire book.

**A/N** Hello there . This is my firs time posting a story here since I was…. Well 12 years old? I created a new account. I'll be honest: I've lurked around this site for almost 14 years now (Jesus that's a long time) reading Harry Potter fan fiction. I recently got a wild hair up my ass and decided to try my hand at writing a fanfiction again, mostly after reading V. L. Crawford's fanfics (and also through his/her favorites). So here's my take on a "what would have happened" scenario. I know this has been done to death, but look at my screen name honey dears. You've been warned.

Chapter 1: Shattered

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..._" (From Harry Potter, written by J.K. Rowling, only included for context)

Sybil Trelawney's voice cut through the silence of an otherwise peaceful night and stopped briefly before she tremulously continued.

_"… but his first victory will come at a terrible price. Thrice blessed will perish and suffer. He of the stars will disappear without a trace. And the boy who lived will be raised ignorant of his legacy. Unwanted, unloved, unknown- he will suffer twice over at the hands of a man with moon eyes. Beware he of the moon eyes for through his machinations all will suffer fates of untold and unbridled sorrow."_

An elegant twist of Albus Dumbledore's wand effectively cut off the ominous timber of Sybil Trelawney's voice, and the white haired man managed a small smile her way.

"Thank you Sybil, that will be quite enough," his calm voice was belied by the surreptitious glance that followed, twinkling blue eyes discreetly making note of any others who could hear the prophecy. At the same time he reached out with his magic—no inconsiderable feat—probing the area for any other magical signatures he could not detect through ocular means. To a casual observer, Albus Dumbledore looked cool as a cucumber, but inside he was a roiling mass of chaos. Would someone make the connection?

It might not be immediately clear to others, but he recognized whom Trelawney meant by " a man of moon eyes". And if given the time, Albus knew with inevitable certainty that others would reach the correct conclusion.

Fortunately, only two other souls were around to witness this historic and terrible moment: his own brother, Aberforth Dumbledore (unfortunate, really, Albus thought briefly), and Severus Tobias Snape. Oh, Albus couldn't see the spindly younger man, but he'd recognize the jib of dear Severus' magic anywhere. And, unfortunately for Snape, his presence represented a distinct problem to Dumbledore's grand design. He certainly couldn't have that.

With expert precision, Albus quickly set a plan in motion that would ensure neither of the other men would remember this moment. Utilizing a bit of wandless magic, he caused the floorboards near Snape to creak. True to form. Aberforth's head immediately whipped toward the source of the noise, and within moments he strode across the room and wrenched a terrified Snape from his hiding place. In the midst of the shouting and confusion, Dumbledore had little trouble gaining control of the other men. Without sparing a backward glance toward Sybil—who lay prostrate on the floor—he ushered the others to Aberforth's personal chambers. He would deal with the seer later; no doubt she would be so worn with the magical effort of prophesizing that she wouldn't be able to wiggle her toes without him knowing. The two men, however, represented a significantly bigger problem. With a simple "Obliviate", Albus knew he could become the sole recipient of Trelawney's prophecy.

And though he would have liked to keep the whole mess a secret, Albus knew he could not. Prophecies left behind magical signatures—someone in the ministry was bound to know that one had been given. But the contents and to whom the prophecy was spoken would remain a mystery until someone filed a report. And of course he would have to do that, or there would be a nasty investigation that could stir up all manner of unpleasantness.

No, that would not do at all. Heaving a weary sigh, Albus directed the other men to sit down on the floor while he himself took the single chair in the disparate room. He knew he couldn't just Obliviate the two men. A plan. Albus Dumbledore needed a plan, and simply disposing of his brother and the potions master hopeful would not suffice.

So the three sat, and Dumbledore thought, stroking his beard and pondering the numerous possibilities in his head.

Caught up in his own thoughts, Dumbledore made perhaps the biggest mistake he'd made in his considerably long life: ignoring Sybil Trelawney in the wake of her prophecy. Had he paid a bit more attention, he might have noticed that the prostrate women started to writhe and flail her arms after he silenced her, her mouth gaping open and closed like a fish out of water.

As Dumbledore sat, the young woman lay on the ground, fighting desperately to overcome the other mans silencing magic. The prophecy was not done, and in silencing her, the man had interfered with a most ancient and powerful magic. It was well known to seers, old and young, that once a prophecy started it would be finished, no matter the cost to the seer. Normally this wasn't a problem. But in silencing her, Albus condemned the young woman to a terrible fate.

Over and over the words of the final piece of her prophecy wheeled through her head, leaving fiery ribbons of pain throughout her brain. Sybil's body alternated between scorching and frigid, and her magic lashed out without her beckoning. Every fiber of Sybil's being focused on remembering the words of the prophecy, even as she dragged herself across the floor and desperately searched for something—ANYTHING—with which she could record the prophecy.

But even as she moved, the words started to lose form. Her vision grew hazy, and the seer's skin began to redden as her blood started to boil in her veins. Unimaginable pain lanced throughout her body until she finally lost the will to move. And so, Sybil lay on the ground, her body thrashing violently as she desperately tried to force the words of the prophecy out of her mouth, or even to write them down somewhere. But Sybil found no outlet . With a bedraggled sigh, Sybil closed her eyes, body thrashing in time with the prophetic rhythm in her head.

Then, abruptly, she stopped moving altogether, her body warping and seizing in a grotesque pose. Her eyes flew open, shining with an ethereal brilliance as her magical core, her very essence, surged forward. This sudden power finally broke the silencing spell Dumbledore had put on her, but Sybil had barely the energy to speak. Even so, the prophecy tumbled out of her lips in an almost inaudible whisper, like water bursting forth from a dam.

_"…But when second fought and second defeated the boy who lived will take his place. The dead will rise, the broken whole, and those ere lost with now have trace. The moon eyed man with plans of steel will fight and lie and cry and wail but on the night of lupine capers a second champion, also born in the dregs of seven, will lead the way to truth." _

Once the final word was uttered, Sybil's eyes immediately went blank. Her body remained in its horrific pose, her muscles still taught and rigid, as if she'd been the recipient of a particularly bad Cruciatus curse. And so she stayed, even as Albus Dumbledore pondered, blissfully unaware of Trelawney's plight.

No, the man was caught up in his own problems. It was rare for Albus to be without a plan, but he supposed in this instance it wasn't terribly surprising. After all, one could not plan for a prophecy. After an agonizing hour of planning and re-planning, the elder wizard decided on his course of action. He would leave Aberforth to slumber in his bed, blissfully unaware that any of the past few hours had ever happened. He'd wave off the loss of time as a drunken escapade no doubt—especially given the fire whiskey bottles Albus left strewn across his room.

Snape, however, was the bigger challenge. If he simply Obliviated the man and sent him back to "Lord Voldemort"—a snort of derision followed this (Tom Riddle as a lord, honestly)—the other wizard would know something had happened. Tom Marvolo Riddle was many things, but stupid was not one of them.

However, he _was_ easily controlled by his ego. Albus personally knew this. He'd been stoking that fire for months, waiting for the perfect opportunity to sweep in and end the war, thus securing his place firmly as the hero of the Wizarding world. Such a feat would solidify his power, and the power of his chosen successors, for years to come.

Severus was meant to be one of those successors, but it seemed that plans would have to be changed-A regrettable fact, but a fact nonetheless.

With this thought, Albus set to work. He molded and modified Severus' memories of the past few hours, leaving only vague details of the first part of the prophecy in place. He knew that the double agent would have to go slithering back to his master and report the prophecy. But all Tom would really know is that there was someone out there who could defeat him—a boy who would be born at the end of July to parents who continually defied him. Albus knew, as would Tom, that very few names could fall in that category.

The news would not sit well with the dark wizard, and Tom would stop at nothing to destroy the child and his parents. And then, with that taken care of, Albus could resume his plans and easily win over the hearts and minds of Magical Britain. Smiling to himself, the old man put a compelling charm on Severus (to ensure he went to Voldemort straight away), released the man from his thrall, and watched him leave the room. Dumbledore himself planned to remain out of sight.

However, sudden shouting from the outer room, followed by the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle required his action. Tightening his grip on his wand, Dumbledore quickly exited Aberforth's room and returned to where Trelawney lay on the floor. She was the first thing he noticed, as her pose was so unnatural it would draw immediate attention. Second, he noticed a dead body next to Trelawney, Severus' wand trained firmly on it. The man was of no real importance, though Albus was silently grateful that Snape had killed him.

Severus himself stood rigid, eyes trained on the dead body before him before they quickly darted to Albus. The old man had the presence of mind to look sternly at the other just before Snape apparated away.

Of course, the use of an unforgivable drew the attention of a group of nearby aurors, including James Potter and Sirius Black, who quickly came to aid in the fight. The next few hours were a blur of investigation, report filing, and transporting Sybil Trelawney to St. Mungos in hopes that her shattered mind and spent magic could be repaired.

Dumbledore managed to make it out of the whole situation unscathed, and later that night, as he sat in the head masters office at Hogwarts, he couldn't help but smile a little at his success. His plan was still in place. Soon he would be the very heart of Magical Britain.

Yes. His plan was perfect.

But as such things are wont to go, Albus' perfect plan crumbled, and the boy who was supposed to die became the Boy-who-lived: a savior, a hero, and a perpetual thorn in Albus Dumbledore's side.


	2. Chapter 2: Shimmering

**Disclaimer: **Obviously I do not own Harry Potter. I am not writing this for any sort of monetary gain. I'm just a bored person who can't come up with their own original thoughts to write an entire book.

**A/N: **Thank you to anyone who reviewed, favorited, or followed my story over night. I was super excited when I woke up and saw all the emails in my inbox. Hopefully you'll all continue to enjoy the story. I'd like to note that this story is going to divorce itself some from the usual "The Potters come alive/ Sirius escapes" and everyone accepts it automatically. It's going to be a process. There's going to be emotional scenes. And yes, Dumbledore is awful in this story, but he's not just going to be a sociopath. I want to explore the psyche of what could make such a "great man" manipulate his friends and family. Anyway, I'll get off my soapbox. Enjoy.

**Chapter 2:** Shimmering

Harry James Potter was not having a very good day. First he'd faced a three-headed dog, then he'd almost been eaten alive by a room-sized plant. If that weren't bad enough, he'd also watched his best friend get clubbed about the head by a life size Wizarding Chess piece. And now—now he was lying hopelessly on the ground, listening to his once stuttering professor wax poetic on the matters of good and evil while the man who killed his parents cackled literally in the background.

Perhaps "not having a very good day" was a bit of an understatement.

"He's not listening to you Quirrell. Make him listen. LISTEN TO US BOY!" A sharp pain lanced through Harry's side as Quirrell's booted foot made contact with his ribs. Harry let out a mewling groan and curled further into the fetal position. Between the pain in his side and the pain in his head, the boy-who-lived was a veritable mess. One by one, tears started to leak out of his eyes. Harry tried to blink them away before the twin terror in front of him could see. It was a futile effort, and Harry felt the pain behind his scar intensify. Once again, Quirrell started his incessant monologue, only to be cut off by the Dark Wizard living in his head.

"Quiet you fool. The boy is fading. Kill him now—quickly you idiot. Strangle him or my return will not be complete!"

As if against his will, Quirrell's body lurched forward, stumbling toward Harry at breakneck speed. The man looked mildly annoyed for a moment before he seemed to regain control of his motor functions and yanked Harry up by his hair. The action was met by an almost inhuman shriek. This new pain refocused Harry on the land of the living, and the boy could hardly handle it.

"Kill him." As soon as the words left Voldemort's mouth, Quirrell had his hands around the younger wizard's neck. Harry screwed his eyes shut, unwilling to make eye contact with his attacker. He waited for the rough squeeze and the sudden loss of breath. It never came. Instead, Harry fell into a jumbled heap on the floor, and his head all but split open as Quirrell began to scream.

"MY HANDS. WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY HANDS? YOU WRETCHED FILTH I'LL KILL YOU."

Quirrell, now under Voldemort's control, yanked Harry from his supine position on the floor and immediately began to strangle him again. This caused the professor's screams to intensify. Uncertain as to why Quirrell was screaming, Harry forced his emerald eyes open to sneak a quick peek at the situation.

Where Harry thought he would see Quirrell peering back at him, he instead saw the man's face morphing and changing shape. His features began to resemble Voldemort's more and more, though there was some resistance to the change.

Harry could count on one hand the number of times he had been legitimately frightened in his life, but that very moment in time easily topped the list. Adrenaline and fear overpowered the immense pain in Harry's body, and he started to flail in Volde-Quirrell's grip, scratching and clawing at the man's face as if that would change the fact that the darkest wizard the world had yet to know was coming alive again before his very eyes.

Fortunately for Harry, the instant his skin made contact with Quirrell's the transformation stopped. The man's skin started to boil and bubble everywhere the Harry touched him. Pain overriding all over senses, the monstrous duo dropped Harry to the ground and stumbled back as blisters and boils began to appear all over their shared body. Harry, too, shuffled backward desperately looking around for his wand or something he could use to protect himself.

All the while, Quirrell's body kept morphing and changing. His skin was completely covered with red boils, and now it seemed to shift almost fluidly. Even so he pressed onward toward Harry, murder alight in his eyes. Harry watched as the other man lurched forward. As he got closer, the splitting pain in Harry's scar intensified until he could hardly handle it. It was at this moment that Quirrell stumbled and fell to the ground. Rather than stopping, the other man—if indeed he could be called that at all—crawled forward. Harry tried to shuffle backward in time, but he was hopelessly lost in his own pain. He vaguely felt the pressure of Quirrell's hand grabbing at his ankle. Dully, the boy looked up and met his attacker's eyes before a single spike of pain pulsed throughout his head. Harry's eyes rolled back in his head and he quickly passed out, missing the show that followed.

Between the pain from the boils and the blood loss from the burst ones, Quirrell was in terrible shape. Well, in truth the man could hardly be considered Quirinus Quirrell anymore. No, that man had been banished to a corner of his own mind as Voldemort expanded his consciousness. But even in the far reaches of his mind, Quirrell knew that if his—well Voldemort's—body did not receive proper medical attention that their hours were numbered.

_My—my lord! Please listen to me. If we do not get medical aid soon this will all be for nothing! We will die! _The thought echoed out toward and touched Voldemort's consciousness. Quirrell felt a distinct shift as the dark wizard shifted some of his focus toward his host.

Quirrell's mind was met with Voldemort's trademark high pitched laughter followed by his dooming response.

_My dear Quirrell, you are already dead. I simply need your energy and magic._

With those mental words, Voldemort ripped Harry's trouser leg and grabbed hold of the newly exposed ankle. This new injury sent Quirrell's body into shock, and it quickly let go of Harry. Internally, Voldemort smirked. If he couldn't kill the Boy-Who-Lived, he could at least take Quirrell's energy for his own and make a more concrete attempt while the boy recovered.

He never got the chance to do so. Quirrell's body began to glow brightly and rose into the air. At the same time, Voldemort felt himself being rejected from Quirrell's body. Rage filled him, and he tried to latch onto the man's magical core even tighter. Whatever was expelling him would have none of it, and despite his grasping claws, Voldemort was soon expelled from Quirrell's body, but not without a small chunk of Quirrell's magic. This energy was enough to boost Voldemort into a semi-corporeal form, and fearing what was happening to his former hosts' body, the evil wizard used part of his strength to disappear.

As soon as the dark wizard was gone, Quirrell's body pulsed, the light shattering into uncountable tiny pieces. They zipped every which way, some leaving the room, others forming tiny aggregates that continued to grow and take shape until two distinct humanoid forms stood in front of Harry.

For a while, everything was still within the room, save for the rising and falling or Harry's chest. The shining humanoid forms did not move, not even to breathe. As the minutes ticked by, the brightness of their forms gradually decreased until two distinct visages could be viewed.

One, a man, looked like an older version of Harry. His jet black hair stuck up in every direction, and round spectacles covered his beautiful hazel eyes. He was average height, and his face was frozen in a mask of fear and agony. Next to him stood a much shorter woman with hip length auburn hair. Her face was set in a similar expression, emerald green eyes speaking more volumes than one could hope to convey in their entire life.

Once all the brightness left their forms, the two immediately jolted into action. The man threw his hands up in defense, and the woman stumbled back, tripping over the still very unconscious Harry Potter. A terrified shriek tore from her lungs as she fell, which caused Harry to stir and the unknown man to whirl around, hand going for a wand that wasn't there.

"LILY!" The thunderous cry accompanied the man's rush to catch the red head. He didn't make it before she crashed into the ground, and for one breathless moment everything was still again.

"James? Is it—are you—are we—" Lily Potter, nee Evans, had never been one for ineloquence, but at the current moment she was baffled. The last she'd remembered her husband had died defending them from Voldemort before she herself attempted to save her baby.

A cursory glance around the area confirmed that they were no longer in Godric's Hollow. Where they were Lily had no idea. The only thing she knew for certain was that the man currently helping her up was, in fact, James Charlus Potter. She would recognize his magical signature anywhere, just as he would recognize hers. Once they'd been married and said their Wizarding vows, James and Lily's magic had become irrevocably intertwined—something they wouldn't change for the world.

"Merlin's beard. Lily." That was all James managed to get out before he seized Lily by the shoulders and pulled her in for a feverish kiss. They stayed like that for several minutes before pulling away breathless, their lips swollen after years of disuse.

"What the bloody hell is going on." Again, James broke the silence, his Auror training kicking as he made a more complete sweep of the area with his eyes. As soon as his eyes fell upon Harry's stirring form, James instinctively pulled Lily behind him, shielding her as best he could from any possible danger. With a growl, Lily slapped his arm and stepped around him. She had also noticed Harry. Rather, she had noticed Harry's injuries, and her Mediwitch training had kicked in. She moved to step around James, who quickly restrained her with a low hiss.

"Lily, it's not safe." His words were met with a heart-stopping glare, though the man pretended to be unaffected.

"This isn't up for negotiation James. That boy is seriously hurt."

"He could be a Death Eater!"

"Oh come off it James! That boy is no more a Death Eater than you are. He's hardly 8 years old by the size of him." She moved to step around James again, who only got more firmly in her way, a stern glare fixed on his face.

"Lily, we are in a strange place and in a strange situation we don't understand. You're nutty if you think I'm letting you go over the to help some stranger." James' temper flared as he spoke, his voice raising so that it echoed off the walls of the room.

"And you're even more nutty if you think that I'm going to let you stand in the way of my vow to heal people, especially a little boy, JAMES POTTER." Lily's voice matched his in loudness, though her pitch was almost at shrieking level.

The two were so caught up in their screaming match that they didn't notice as Harry sat up, nearly losing his lunch to vertigo in the process. The screaming around him immediately caused the boy to whip out his wand and point it at the two older wizards behind him. At the same time he scrambled back, doing his very best to fight the pain in his head and stand. At least then he'd be on somewhat even ground with the unfamiliar witch and wizard.

Finally on his feet, he at last registered the names the two were calling each other. Harry's stomach sunk to his feet. So that was it. He'd died, and now he'd joined his parents in the afterlife. And they were angry. Tear sprang unbidden to Harry's eyes. His parents had died saving him from Voldemort, and now he'd let himself be killed by the same man. They would hate him. The knowledge tore at his heart, and Harry greatly desired to run from the room and hide his shame. But he couldn't. Before him stood his parents who had so longed for his entire life. Yes, they were angry, but honestly Harry would take even their after-life anger to the nothingness he'd had for the past 11 years of his life.

And so, summoning every ounce of Gryffindor courage in his body, Harry lowered his wand and called out in a tremulous voice:

"Mum? Dad?"


End file.
